


It's A Terrible Reign

by angevin2



Category: 14th Century CE RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crack Premise Played Straight, Dream Visions are Legitimately Medieval, Gen, Pastiche, Wicked Chivalrous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 12:50:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angevin2/pseuds/angevin2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dying John of Gaunt, with the aid of his long-dead brother, walks the road not taken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's A Terrible Reign

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Skeiler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skeiler/gifts).



> I decided that, not having a good enough sense of Oton de Graunson to actually write him as a character in a fic, I would write to the "anything about John of Gaunt" part of your prompt. After a lengthy struggle for a premise, I finally hit upon "seasonally appropriate crack." Thus: this fic. I hope you enjoy it; it was tremendous fun to write!

John of Gaunt opens his eyes from a restless sleep that hasn't really afford him escape from the ever-present pain he's been in and for a moment he thinks that someone, damnably, has let King Richard in to see him without bothering to blow the trumpets or indeed even wake him up.

In retrospect, this should have been his first clue.

What _does_ clue him in is that the figure he initially sees as Richard, sitting in his chair with his legs crossed in an annoyingly jaunty manner, cannot possibly be Richard, for he is older, dark-haired and soberly dressed, entirely unlike the peacock Richard. But the resemblance is unmistakable.

"…Edward?" he says, his eyes seeming to clear as the realization dawns, and Edward actually _smiles_ at him, which is far more unsettling than the mere occurrence of waking up to see his long-dead brother sitting in his room staring at him, since John has known for some time that he is dying, and thus presumably encountering a dead person is something that could believably happen to him in the near future, seeing Edward smile at someone other than Joan isn't something John has ever thought was quite possible.

"It's been a long time, hasn't it?" Edward says. 

John nods, cautiously. "So, this is it?" he says. "I'm dead?" He tries to sit up, but everything aches too much. Weren't you supposed to lose your assorted bodily infirmities once you died? He looks at his hands – they're still an old, sick man's hands. The entire experience is rapidly beginning to go sour. He wonders if there's a servant or a steward or something that he could send for who could tell him where to direct his complaints.

Of course, John supposes, they _could_ both be in hell – years of adultery could, theoretically, do that to a man, as could slaughtering large numbers of civilians as Edward had done at the siege of Limoges – but the climate in what still appears to be his bedchamber is entirely too temperate for hell, even Dante's much chillier version, and he suspects that if he _were_ in hell Edward probably wouldn't be grinning at him. Unless, of course, he were actually a demon sent to torment, or at least severely annoy, John in the form of his dead brother.

His mind has thankfully not gotten much farther along this path when Edward replies, "You're not, actually. I mean, you _will_ be, before too long, but not just yet." He rises from the chair to lay a hand on John's head, and John notices that he suddenly feels a great deal less achy than he did only an instant ago, and not at all exhausted. In fact, he can even stand up. He's still marveling at this when Edward turns him around in order to show him his own body, which is still lying quite peacefully in bed. "See?" Edward says. "I've seen a lot of dead men in my life, and none of them snored."

"The courteous thing to do would have been not to mention it," John grumbles. 

"We're not at court," Edward says. "Well, not _right now,_ " but before he's finished saying it they're actually standing in the middle of Westminster Abbey, surrounded by people who are blissfully unaware that the dead Prince of Wales and the dying Duke of Lancaster are standing quite unobtrusively next to the coronation chair. 

"You're taking me back in time to your son's coronation?" John says. "Look, Edward, I've had my life flash before my eyes before, it was a lot less annoying than this – "

Edward answers by pointing down the aisle. There are the bishops, and his brothers (God, they all look so young) and the canopy of state, and underneath it – Christ, it's _him,_ him and Constance, and _they_ look young, too. He hadn't _felt_ young when Richard was crowned, but his hair and beard are still black and his face has no visible lines. 

"It's twenty-two years ago. July of 1377," Edward says, "and we're attending the coronation of John, second of that name since the Conquest. You've always wished that that had happened, haven't you?"

John straightens up, indignant. "I've been nothing but loyal to your son, Edward – I've given half of my life, my health – Christ, Edward, he had Thomas killed and I said _nothing._ "

"I know," Edward says. His face is suddenly lined with sorrow, and that's the face John remembers. "He'll answer for it, soon enough. But this isn't about him, John – it's about you. "

"All right," John says. "Yes. I've been thinking about this – " and he gestures to his younger self, mounting the platform to the coronation chair – "all my life. Since you died, anyway. For God's sake, Edward, Richard was ten years old when he became king. I was the oldest son, after you. If you know about Thomas, you know about what's become of Richard. He's bled the country white and I've been nothing but loyal to him. I've never entertained even a _thought_ of usurping his throne. Am I really so wrong just to _think_ that – if it had come to it – I could have done better?" 

Edward's eyes flash in that way that John remembers from the French wars, the way that told you a lot of French people were going to die very soon. "I'm not here to disavow my son, John," he says. "Think of this as an act of mercy – wouldn't you rather die knowing that you haven't actually made things worse?"

John raises an eyebrow. "How is showing me my own coronation supposed to convince me of that?"

Edward smirks. "You're only seeing the indoors part," he says, and then the air shimmers in a way that's more pronounced than hot air and incense alone can cause and they're standing in what appears to be the middle of Broad Sanctuary, which is packed with people and buzzing like a nest of wasps. Through the crowd John can see Thomas directing a group of men-at-arms to clear the way for the royal procession, and he wonders who, exactly, decided to put Thomas in charge of crowd control. He hopes it wasn't his idea – and then the buzzing explodes into shouting and cries of "One King John was bad enough" and a rock actually goes whizzing _through_ Edward's head, which is an unnatural enough sight that John is briefly distracted from the sight of the youth who threw it being struck down by a soldier with a halberd. 

"They see you as a usurper," Edward says, as the men-at-arms beat back the angry crowd, forcing a pathway for the now-heavily-guarded royal party to pass through. "Rather like the first King John, in fact. They'd rather have had my son as their king. They've already started murmuring about the young Duke of Aquitaine and his superior bloodlines."

"You don't need to tell me that," John mutters, distracted by the violence around them – while this may not actually be happening, he is also not actually dead, and thus retains his instinctual sense of self-preservation. It's gotten him pretty far in life up until now. "That _did_ actually happen, you know. Archbishop Sudbury made a speech to Parliament about how Richard was your very image and likeness, and would be a great king someday, and besides he was just so adorable that of course he should be king."

As much as John knows that Edward's love for his family was as fierce as his conduct on the field, his brother's fond grin is perhaps the most unsettling thing John has ever seen. "He _was_ pretty adorable," he says, and John rolls his eyes.

"And speaking of Sudbury," Edward says, and suddenly they're standing on Blackheath, surrounded by dead men. 

Most of them are peasants, clearly, commoners at least, in ragged homespun, but there are, unbelievably, many knights and men-at-arms among them. The grass is muddy and matted, stained with blood. "I suppose this is what's become of the Rising, in my reign?" John says, and Edward nods gravely. "Well," he says. "They _were_ rebels."

"These men weren't," Edward says, indicating some of the better-dressed corpses. In spite of his better instincts, John wanders over to them, peering at the coats of arms. _Gules, two lions passant guardant in pale or, within a bordure argent_ : Holland. _Gules, on a chevron argent, three roses of the field:_ Knollys. _Quarterly or and gules, in the first quarter a mullet argent_ : Oxford -- 

"This one's no great loss," John says, looking from the dark-haired young man with an arrow in his throat to Edward, who is watching him with a raised eyebrow. He isn't about to mention to Edward what Robert de Vere was to his son, although since Edward is dead (and Robert de Vere is dead, too, even in the real world) he probably knows; John has no idea how these things work. "And anyway, we've still won, haven't we? A ragged army of peasants can't possibly have overthrown the crown of England."

"Of course they can't," Edward says. "But many more people die, on both sides, and many more people will hate you." He points up, and suddenly they're standing under a gibbet, loaded with bodies. "These men's families, for instance."

"For Christ's sake, Edward," John says. "Do I need to explain that this is more or less what _actually happened_? Your son did his share of presiding over mass hangings, himself."

"My son was fourteen," Edward says. "It makes a great deal of difference. It forced everyone to tread extremely carefully -- even the rebels, if you think about it. They could say they weren't holding the King responsible for everything that was wrong." 

"No," John says. "Just me. They _did_ burn down the Savoy, you know, and they nearly killed _my_ son."

"But they didn't," Edward points out. "Isn't the Savoy a small price to pay?"

"You know, you're a fine one to lecture me about diplomacy," John says. It's bad enough that he's spending what is probably a significant portion of his final days on earth being shown how terrible a king he would have been, but from Edward? It's too much to cope with. "Or have you forgotten about Limoges?"

Edward seems to grow suddenly _taller,_ looming over John in a way that suggests not just the impending death of a lot of French people, but something _supernatural_ \-- which is possible, since he _is_ dead after all -- and his face is terrible, terrible enough to make John's blood run cold, and he's not sure his dream-vision self actually even _has_ blood.

"I have _never_ forgotten Limoges," he says. "Never. I paid for that blood, John, with the life of my son. Do not _presume_ to speak to me about it."

"I wanted to _end_ the war, Edward," John says. "I've supported Richard in _his_ efforts to end it. We're never going to win it."

"Indeed," Edward says. "I said the same thing to Richard, before I died."

"You _what_?" John stares at him, aghast. 

"Being about to die _does_ grant you _some_ perspective, John," Edward says, and then, appearing to examine the bodies on the gibbets rather than actually look John in the eye, "You don't want to know what _my_ reign would have been like."

"I had to clean up Aquitaine after you," John says. "I don't think I have to ask."

"However," Edward says, and the gibbets are replaced by a great hall, hung with fleurs-de-lys. "You would have made peace with France."

John watches himself -- now greying and with a permanent scowl -- and young King Charles signing the papers; there are bells ringing and handclasps and kisses of peace exchanged all around. He casts a sidelong glance back at Edward. "So how does _this_ get completely bollocksed?" he asks. "I assume everyone hates me for it. I don't see how that's different from how things actually are -- every time we renew the damn truce someone throws a fit. Usually Thomas."

"Well, this time it's basically everyone," says Edward. "The Pope, for one."

"Which one?"

"The Roman one, actually," Edward says. "He's not very pleased that the King of England is allying himself with schismatics, when he's already a protector of heretics like John Wyclif."

"Oh, for Christ's sake," John says. 

"It gets worse, actually," Edward says, and then they're standing on a rocky Welsh beach, and there's a crowd there and the standard-bearers are carrying the banner of the _bloody motherfucking White Hart._ And there's Richard, not dressed like a peacock at all, kneeling and crossing himself and then lifting a handful of earth to his lips.

"We thank you all," he's saying, "who have joined with us in pursuing our right to the thrones of England and France against our usurping heretic uncle..."

This is about all John can take. "All right, Edward," he says. "I get it, I'd have been a shit king, can I just, I don't know, return to my own body now? Because if I have to watch my feckless nephew lead a rebellion against me -- "

"If it makes you feel any better," Edward says, "you do hang onto the crown in the end. Then you get the clap from one of your numerous mistresses and your cock rots off. And the servants steal your jewels after you die."

John's eyes narrow. "You had to get that in, didn't you. Thanks ever so much."

Edward clasps his hand. "The point is," he says, "you did all right. The best you could, even. I'll see you soon, brother."

And then he's back in his chamber and everything hurts again. King Richard is coming to see him. He'd better be in better form.

John of Gaunt pulls himself upright to greet Edward's son.


End file.
